Like Cats and Dogs
by May Glenn
Summary: Wee!chesters crack fic: A witch turns Sam into a cat and Dean into a dog. Cuteness ensues. Stressed!John, Adorable!Boys. T for language, but milder than usual for me.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Okay, so this weird little bugger has been buzzing in my skull for quite a while now, and it's time I let it out. Deciding in my uniquely fevered imagination that Dean possesses characteristics stereotypically associated with dogs (loyalty, devotion, etc.), and that Sam similarly possesses those associated with cats (intelligence, independence, etc.), I thought that it would be funny if they were hit with a witch's curse that turned them into these pets! Then I decided that it would be cute as well if they were very young. The icing on the cake would be John having to deal with the hilarity and overwhelming cuteness and subsequent stress. **_

_**So I did it! **_

_**Not what I usually write, so I'd appreciate any tips/comments/suggestions. **_

…

LIKE CATS AND DOGS

…

November 1984

Flagstaff, Arizona

…

John Winchester kept firing until the witch stopped moving. What a way to spend the one year anniversary of Mary's death.

The witch's mistake had been to select innocent children among her sacrificial victims, a quick way to get dead in John's book. Witches were human, and, as far as he knew, not impervious to bullets, so once he had her located, finishing her off was a quick job.

After the hunt, John went for a drink. Another stellar move. Yeah, he was really handling this well: leaving his two baby boys alone with some small-townie teenager while he sat and got drunk in the local dive on the anniversary of their mother's death. Dean wasn't even six yet, and already he was responsible for himself and Sammy as their father slipped deeper into a grief-filled alcoholism matched only by his obsession with revenge.

It took a stiff string of JD to snap John out of his anguish. _Friggen grow a set, Winchester. I don't care how much it hurts, those boys are all you have left of her. Go look after them._ Pragmatism added, _You don't have enough dough to pay the townie for staying all night, especially if you keep drinking like this._

It was settled. John paid for the round and headed back to the motel where his boys—if they knew what was good for them—he was their father, after all—were in bed, asleep.

…

As soon as the man left the house, the witch opened her eyes. The pool of blood haloing around her was definitely a huge problem.

How was she ever going to get it out of the carpet, for starters?

Well, no, that wasn't strictly true. The biggest problem before her was how she was going to exact revenge upon—okay, quick divination spell, the carpet can wait—ah, yes: upon John Winchester.

…

For Lorelei McKennon, right now, life was good. SNL was on late night TV and she was munching happily on cold pizza. Mr. Johnson had promised her $3 an hour to watch his two sons for the evening while he was out on business—though what business he could be doing at 11:00 at night was anyone's guess—and he was creeping up on five hours already!

The boys had been adorable but exhausting, especially little Sammy, whose curiosity was outmatched only by his clumsiness and was, as a result, a ticking time bomb of self-injury. Dean had been helpful in this regard, when he could be pulled away from his army men and a suspicious affinity for locating the pay-per-view channels on the motel television just by button-mashing the remote. She was more than a little glad to put them to bed by 9:30 after telling them the story of—her specialty—watered-down _Star Wars_ for kids. She could have sworn she heard, though, as she turned off the light and closed the door to the bedroom, Dean saying "Naw, Sammy, she didunt get it right. I'll straighten ya out…" She tried not to laugh, and let it slide. So long as no one got hurt and she got paid, they could be up til 3:00AM talking to each other.

In the dark room beyond, Sam and Dean lay tangled together on the large queen-sized bed, slightly off to one side as if waiting for when their father would join them there. They had been asleep since 9:35, after Dean had corrected their erring but well-meaning (and kinda hot) babysitter that Han, in response to Leia firing a blaster near his feet as they tried to escape the prison block, did in fact say "What the _hell_ are you doing?" not "What the _heck_ are you doing?" as their babysitter would have had them believe. Honestly, did she think they were stupid? Even Sammy knew that one, and he hasn't even _seen_ Star Wars yet.

As the clock struck midnight and Lorelei grinned in anticipation of the $15 richer she was going to be by the end of tonight, the window in the other room squeaked open. Sam, the lighter sleeper of the two, stirred, and Dean pulled the covers higher over his baby brother on reflex, but neither woke.

The clawing, grasping shadows of the trees writhed on the floor before materializing into a single shape: a witch riding a broomstick. Pointy hat and all, but then she _was_ a stickler for tradition. And Johnny boy picked the wrong girl to mess with. First a little emotional torment was in order, then a lot of pain, and then, if he was very lucky, death. It was a good thing she was in the market for a new pair of familiars—since Winchester had killed her last black cat and her guard hound before deluding himself that he could kill her, too—otherwise she'd just as soon brain them where they slept.

She carved symbols in the wall, sprinkled herbs in a circle around the bed, and began the incantation…

And damn if these newer models weren't cuter than the originals.

…

Lorelei was a nice enough girl, but John ushered her out the door $14 richer a little quicker than was necessary when he got home in anticipation of seeing his boys. He was taking them out for ice cream tomorrow, _that_ was a promise, for being good for the babysitter and to help assuage his guilt for leaving them alone on tonight of all nights. He hadn't yet gotten his boots off, however, when he heard a commotion in the bedroom.

It sounded like…barking.

_Oh, no, they didn't._ John thought, with a feral growl. Sam had been on a wanting-a-puppy kick for the past week or so, which Dean had been asking John for incessantly. How they had conned the babysitter into letting them keep a stray, though, was beyond him.

Then John heard another sound, but one that he recognized all too well, if only from having heard it just hours before: the inhuman shrieking of a certain witch.

John burst upon the scene with the fury of a mother bear defending her cubs, though he paused briefly to take in what he saw—which was weird, even for him. A small dog, puppy-sized, was the center of his attention. It had latched with its jaws onto the bristles of a broomstick which was itself being used by the witch _he had just killed_ to make an escape. John's eyes darted to the bed, which was empty of Sam and Dean, and panicking, he raised the Colt 1911 he had not yet disarmed himself of at the witch.

"Try that again, Johnny boy," she shrieked, "and I'll drown the little brats the next time I see them!" With a shake of her broom, she dislodged the puppy, who fell with a yelp into a pile of clothes. "Don't think I won't be back for them!" she cackled and flew away out the open window.

John stood dumbfounded for only a moment. Then, "Dean? Sammy?" he barked.

He didn't expect a bark back.

He turned in time to see a small golden mutt trot obediently out from beneath the pile of clothes, apparently unharmed, and sit and stare at him expectantly.

"Dean…" John tried again, looking around, refusing to believe the situation on many levels. "Dean, where did this dog come from? Where are you hiding? Where's your brother?"

This last question was answered by a tiny, lost-sounding _mewl_ from the bed. As John couldn't bring himself to move, the puppy darted from where it had been sitting up onto the bed, where it began worriedly rooting around in the blankets, sheets, pillows, and—

Clothes. Empty clothes. Empty Sam and Dean's pajamas. Except that, tangled inside Sammy's hand-me-down _Batman_ t-shirt, was a little black kitten. Its mewling and crying soon subsided as the puppy began to give it a rough but thorough once-over.

"Oh, my God." John sat down heavily. He couldn't form words for a long minute, then: "What did that bitch do to you boys?" he breathed.

The puppy barked excitedly, as if attempting to answer the question.

John licked his lips. "Dean?" He didn't really want to know the answer.

The puppy barked again, this time wagging its tail.

"Um. Okay. Uh. Can you understand me? Bark once for 'yes.'"

A solid, single, _yip!_

"Jesus Christ." John ran a hand over his eyes. "Where's Sammy?"

The puppy—Dean—if it really was Dean—turned, grasped the tiny, mewling, and immediately perturbed-looking kitten by its scruff and held it up in his jaws, like an offering.

"That's Sam?"

The single bark of affirmation caused Dean to drop the kitten, which immediately burst into tears, as near as an animal could come. And damned if it didn't _sound_ like Sammy.

"Oh, boys," John nearly sobbed, gathering the creatures into his arms in an embrace. He threatened to break down as longing, fear, separation, dread, concern, anger, and love all boiled up in him, but he just managed to keep it under control as long as he was holding onto them. It was a strange experience, but the animals sort of _hugged_ him in return, like small boys and very much unlike any creatures John had ever known, which would have wriggled away at such close confinement. And Dean could understand him. Sammy probably could, too. That was something. They were still _them_ inside. He had to fix this.

…

Dean may have been just a kid, but he knew what was up. And, right now, something was definitely up.

_Seriously, what the hell?_

The last thing he remembered, hot babysitter, _Star Wars_, sweeping army men aside so they wouldn't poke him as he slept, Sammy fussing about having to go to bed and friggen falling asleep in the middle of his claim that he wasn't even tired, and then suddenly that bitch was in the room.

Or, yeah, witch, whatever.

Dean had opened his eyes just in time to see her transform Sam into a cat! "What the hell are you doing?" he tried to say, like Han Solo, but it came out funny, and he felt weird, but then Dad had burst into the room and everything was okay.

Except, not really.

He was—_What the hell?_—she'd done something to him, too? Dean looked down at himself, alarmed but not really surprised, in the scheme of things, to be met by paws and fur and _now_ he recognized the sound coming out of his mouth: she'd turned him into a friggen _dog_!

Then he had found kitten-Sammy trapped inside his own clothes, and then Dad was practically crying and hugging them, and then Dean felt suddenly sleepy so maybe this was all a dream and he would be better when he woke up.


	2. Chapter 2

**_A/N: Okay, so any requests for anything of monumental cuteness should come in pretty quick, as my imagination is limited and I may just skip ahead to the plot! ;) Next installment may be a while, but we'll see how my creativity strikes me, if, you know, at all. :P_**

_**Should also probably mention what a huge help Ariel Buttercup's been in this story. I worked out the main ideas with her before beginning this, and only because of her support is something as insane as this ever seeing the light of day! ;)**_

…

John was awakened by a whimpering and a pawing at his coat. He flinched upright, upsetting the sleeping kitten in the crook of his arm, as the night's events came back to him. His boys had been cursed by a witch he'd killed _himself_—though, obviously, not completely enough to prevent her from coming back with a vengeance. And hadn't she said that she'd be back for them? Might even have taken them already if Dean hadn't—

And here was Dean, now reduced from the smartest five-year-old John had ever known into a dumb animal. He was pawing at him, clearly to get his attention, in need of him, and the poor kid couldn't even articulate what it was. And Sammy, a mewling, grumpy ball of fluff—though admittedly that was about par for the course for Sam in the mornings—fragile and helpless-looking, next to him.

"What is it, son?" John tried. "You need something? Hungry?"

In response, the puppy yipped in what might have been an affirmative and jumped off the bed, rearing up, begging to be followed.

Sighing, John looked at the clock: 6:00 AM. That was about right, for a Saturday of all days, as _Thundercats_ aired at 6:30 AM sharp. He got up and followed behind the puppy, hoping that whatever he needed would be obvious when they got—

To the bathroom. The door was closed.

"Oh!" said John, laughing, suddenly understanding. "Sorry, bud. Sure thing." And he turned the knob and pushed the door open. Dean trotted inside and then turned, waiting expectantly. "You, uh, don't want to go outside?" John tried.

An angry growl was Dean's response, accompanied by an annoyed yip.

"Right. Okay, sorry."

This was _definitely_ a human five-year-old. They stared at one another for a few moments until John realized he was still holding the door open. Dean sat, unamused, waiting for his old man to get it. John could almost see the small animal reminding him he was old enough to use the can by himself—_Geez, Dad_. He nodded and sheepishly pulled the door shut.

…

Yeah, okay, so this was harder than expected. But Dean had _pride_, damn it, and he wasn't about to water the concrete out in front of the motel in front of _people_.

Somehow, after a struggle, he managed his business in the toilet without making a huge mess, but flushing was just something his dad was gonna have to take care of. When the door creaked open he nearly fell off the toilet in alarm, though it wasn't as if he was caught with his pants around his ankles. Luckily, it was only Sam.

"_Can't a guy take a leak in peace? Get outta here, Sam!"_

"_I has ta go potty _too_, Dee!" _the kitten whined, doing a funny little dance.

"_Well, that hasn't stopped you before,"_ Dean snapped, recalling Sam's absolute disinterest in potty-training up to now, before he realized that this didn't make sense for some reason. Then, _"Wait, so you can _talk _now? And, uh, I can understand you?"_ Dean was not your average five-year old, and while he believed in witches—_now_—and leprechauns—_hated the little bastards_—and such, he definitely did not believe in anything a _Disney_ movie had ever tried to teach him. Like animals talking. To each other. In _English_.

Sam, however, protested: _"Of _course_, Dee! Ain't you never sawed _Bambi_?"_

Um. Okay.

"_Yeah. Right. Sorry, Sammy. Can you, uh, get up here?" _

As a kitten, Sam was clearly more physically capable than his two-year-old human body and brain could manage, and he made the jump agilely—though admittedly he did almost fall in on the other side.

"_Ahh! Halp!"_

"_Jesus!"_ Dean cried, making a lucky grab before Sam fell into the pot. _"Okay, bro, we are _so_ doing this outside from now on. Though I am glad,"_ he added, once Sam's business was finished, _"that you've finally learned to piss in the toilet."_

"_I knows whatsits _for_, Dean!" _Sam snapped back indignantly. _"Sometimes it's just I goes 'fore I 'members."_ Sam was pouting now, and Dean wasn't in a mood to deal with this, so he let it go. Anyway, a potty-trained Sam was gonna be an awesome change from before, and he didn't want to spoil it by being mean. Dean lowered his brother to the ground as gently as he could, and while Sam free-fell the last few inches, he managed to land easily and in good form.

"_Okay, so what now?" _


	3. Chapter 3

_**A.N.: It's my birthday today, so I decided that instead of doing homework I deserved to catch up on some fan-fiction I've been leaving hanging for far too long. Thanks much to Ariel Buttercup, who encouraged me to continue this and who helped me out with much of the plot. And of course a huge thanks to all who have reviewed!**_

_**Warning: Mildly strong language ahead, especially for a five-year-old. ;)**_

…

LIKE CATS AND DOGS

…

"_Okay, so what now?" _

Dean had been referring to the situation in general—that they couldn't stay like this forever, Dad would have a cow—but Sam mistook his brother's intention for the problem at hand.

"_Hungee, Dee!_" he piped.

Dean cocked his head to one side at this. Then, deciding he agreed, nodded, after pausing to scratch his ear. "_Yeah. Okay. Let's go ask dad._"

This was going to prove easier barked than done, however, because Dad was less in a listening mood than usual. He was on the phone yelling at someone when they padded into the room, books and notebooks strewn across the tables and chairs. It took so long for Dad to even notice them, in fact, that Sam began stalking a cricket that tried to creep beneath the baseboard. Even when he did notice them, communicating their present need went something like this:

_Bark! Bark! _

And in the end was only achieved when Sam finally caught—and _ate_—_gross!_—said cricket, which made Dad snap into realization. Yeah. Food. _Duh, Old Man._

…

Not knowing what else to try, John pulled into the local McDonald's, leaving the boys alone in the car to retrieve what they usually ordered: two Happy Meals, one cheeseburger for Dean and one chicken nuggets for Sam (which Sam only rarely finished without his brother's help).

Returning to the car, John was pleased to see Dean tuck in as usual, once the wrappings were uncovered. He whined a little at the toy, which seemed to be some kind of Transformer that was impossible to play with because of his current lack of thumbs. Sam, however, took only a few bites of chicken and ignored the fries completely in favor of pawing at a fly that had gotten in through the half-open windows.

"Sam, no!" John shouted, grabbing his son-turned-kitten forcefully as the latter caught the bug and attempted to put it in his mouth. The tiny creature hissed and puffed himself up, upset to be deprived of his quarry, and John, in response to Sam's fast-growing attitude, reacted in the only way he knew how.

He became furious.

"Don't take that tone with me, young man!" he bellowed, lifting Sam until he was at eye-level. "You better learn to straighten up and fly right, son, and start acting like a human being, or I swear to God…"

Sam was mewling and squirming in his hands, trying hard to bite and scratch but basically powerless in John's strong grasp. Of course, he couldn't hear what Sam was saying, but it was clear the boy was throwing a tantrum, and John's own temper never helped these matters. He looked to Dean, who could usually get Sam to calm down and who was now barking excitedly up at the scene. He could practically hear the boy shouting "Stop fighting! Stop fighting!" like he did whenever John and the eighteen-month-old got into these screaming matches (which was depressingly often, as John had never known such a strong-willed, impulsive, and picky child).

Then suddenly something happened in this exchange that John didn't understand, but it seemed to frighten Dean, who immediately stopped barking and sat back on his haunches as if stunned. A soft whimper made Sam stop squirming, which made John stop yelling and just gawk in amazement. After a moment of silence he put Sam down on the seat of the car, and Dean rushed to him, worriedly inspecting him as Sam made soft kitten crying sounds.

John couldn't handle this. He got out of the car and went for a walk around the block to cool his mood.

…

"_Sam! Sammy, stop it! Quit being such a baby and dad'll put you down! Damnit, Sam!" _

"_I'm _not_ a baby, I'm a kitty!" _Sam bellowed, with surprising strength for such a tiny set of lungs, sounding more like a lion than a young housecat.

That was what made Dean stop barking and sit back. That hurt, for some reason, as readily as if Sam had said he didn't want Dean as his brother anymore. "Don't say that, Sam," Dean whined.

Sam immediately looked repentant and stopped squirming, and Dad put him down on the seat and left. Dean immediately pounced on him, licking him until he stopped crying.

"_Look, Sammy, I know Dad can be a dick, sometimes, but you gotta stop picking fights,"_ Dean explained to the forlorn kitten.

"_Bet Mommy was a cat,"_ Sam decided, according to whatever grasp of animal biology he had at such a young age.

Dean barked out a laugh to keep from crying. _"No, she wasn't, you moron. She was a _person_, just like you or me or Dad." _

"_Not a baby,"_ Sam muttered petulantly, but Dean wasn't sure whether it was the insinuation of his humanness or the general condescension that was making Sam fussy, so he let the comment go unchecked this time.

"_You wanna try eating some more chicken for me, Sam?"_

"_Nah-uh. Tastes gross."_

"_So, what, you'd rather eat the friggen _bug_? Come on, man. Just one more nugget. Then I'll make Dad to take us to the park._"

Sam brightened at this. _"Pinky-promise?"_

"_Uh. Yeah, man. Pinky-promise,"_ Dean vowed, wondering how he was actually going to communicate this to the old man, much less convince him of the venture.

But Sam always was a conniving little bastard, so when John had cooled down and returned to the car, Sam darted outside as soon as John opened the door.

"Sam!" John roared, as Dean barked out _"Sam? What the hell are you doing?"_

Sam was giggling as he ran, because he was free now and there was a park dead ahead.

John was too busy being blinded by his fear and rage, and no little sadness, so only Dean saw that there was a very busy street in between the bounding kitten and the park.


	4. Chapter 4

_**A.N.: I knew it was inevitable. I ratchet up the cussing in this chapter, as is unfortunately unavoidable for me. So consider yourself warned: Worried!Dean is not Clean-Mouthed!Dean, even if he is only five! **_

_**Anyway, hope you enjoy the next installment! Thank you so much for your continued patience and kind reviews, and I reckon I should be done in a couple of chapters here soon.**_

…

_See Dean run. Run, Dean, run._ God, he hated those books. For all Dean cared, Spot could shove it up his—

"_Sam! Saaaammy!"_

Sam didn't realize his folly until he was very much already in the middle of the street. A few screeching tires, a few slamming breaks, and an incredible amount of luck were all that kept the baby-turned-kitten-turned-moron from being pulverized until Dean could get to him, running as headlong into the street as Sam had. If it was lucky Sam wasn't hit, it was a miracle Dean wasn't injured as he dove on top of his brother, gripped him fiercely in his tiny jaws, tumbling along with his momentum until they landed in the gutter on the other side.

Dean usually tried to watch his mouth around his little brother, mainly because he knew Dad didn't take kindly to it. Well, now Dad couldn't hear. And Sam needed to learn a thing or two.

Apparently, about swearing.

"_Jesus fucking Christ, Sam, what the hell were you thinking? You little shit, you could have gotten killed!"_ Sam was crying as Dean barked angrily at him. And for once Dean didn't care.

Much.

"_God,"_ he sighed, trying to breathe deeply so this wouldn't turn violent. _"Just. Don't run out to the street like that, you know better. Dad's gonna tear you a new one,"_ he added, sadly, knowing that, however badly he wanted to pound Sam right now, he would have to be the one to save his little brother's fuzzy hide from Dad, who had significantly less restraint and pity.

Sam was still sobbing, mewling, sitting as he had fallen, legs flopped to one side.

"_Dammit, Sammy, don't cry. You okay? Not hurt are ya?"_

"_N-n-nooooo…"_ Sam wailed.

"_Not okay, or not hurt, Sam, which is it?"_ Dean tried again, but never got an answer, because before Sam could reply Dad had found them and scooped them up into his arms.

Dean prepared himself for the inevitable battle, but for the second time in as many days Dad scared the crap out of him by displaying emotions Dean would otherwise have sworn he just didn't experience like the rest of the world: things like fear and frantic relief, which expressed themselves in the form of shaking arms and almost-tears.

"_Um…it's okay, Dad,"_ Dean tried, knowing his father couldn't hear him but needing to say something anyway. _"Sammy's okay. He's all right. Wouldn't let nothin' happen to him."_

"_Otay, Daddy,"_ Sammy repeated, equally unnecessarily. _"I so-wee!"_

Dean blinked, not missing the irony, even as a five-year-old, that this was probably going to be the only time one of these two ever apologized to the other, and the message wasn't even received.

After some time, after deciding that they were in fact alive and unharmed, John carried them over to a park bench. Sam instantly forgot that he was supposed to be pretending to be sad and chagrined and perked his little ears up, wriggling and mewling to escape to play so that John had to tighten his grip.

"Now," he said sternly, setting the two on the bench and eyeing them. "You two play here for a while, but don't get into trouble. I'm going to the library just across the street for a few minutes, got it? You see it, Dean?"

Dean barked once in the affirmative.

"You two gonna be okay? I'll just be half an hour. As long as a _Thundercats_ episode."

Dean had his reservations, but he barked once again.

…

John had watched his two boys frolicking in the all but empty park playground: first Sam chasing Dean through the sand, then Dean chasing Sam up onto the grass, where he pounced on his brother and engaged in a friendly wrestling match that he appeared to let Sam win. Even when Dean rolled over, Sam continued to nip at the other's ears until, apparently bored, Dean got up and trotted away. Dean spotted his father still watching, gave him a reassuring _yip!_ and turned back to his play.

Hell, John knew he could trust Dean with Sam's safety better than he could trust even himself. He stood and headed for the library to look back over the research he had done before killing the witch the first time, seeing if—_what_, since he had clearly overlooked something—he had missed anything.

It quickly turned out he had. Her power source was a pendant. It had been a crucifix necklace before she went darkside, apparently, because there existed a few pictures of her wearing it right-side up, but now it was very definitely used to mark her as Satan's whore. If he thought about it, he was sure he had seen her wearing it.

So. Take the pendant, kill her (presumably bullets would still do the job), destroy the pendant, and, this was important, salt and burn the corpse. Overkill wasn't an option on this one.

If her death didn't break the curse on his boys, well, there was always this Robert Singer guy Missouri said was supposed to know his stuff that he could contact.

…

"_Sam! Sammy, get down from there! Come on, Dad'll be back any minute!" _

Sam, perched high up in an elm tree, only stuck his tongue out at his brother. _"Ha ha! Can't get me!"_ He giggled. He tried another branch higher up. Whoa. Maybe not so high. This is good. Can still tease dumb old Dean and old old Dad from here.

Sam was just so darn _happy_ being a kitty. His new found co-ordination alone was worth it, but add to this being able to see, hear, and smell better, and actually do most of the things he wanted to do (like run away!), this curse was the best thing that had ever happened to him in his not-quite two years of existence.

If Dean wanted him to get down from this tree, they were going to have Words first. Words!

"_Dean, I don't wanna be a baby no more!"_

"_Then quit acting like one! Get down from there!"_

Hm. It appeared that turning into a dog didn't increase Dean's powers of observation. He wasn't getting him. Or, more likely, considering this was Dean: he was insisting on being willfully ignorant. He was _ignoring_ him.

Sam hated to be ignored.

"_Dean, you ain't list'nin'!"_ Sam insisted. From his perch he saw their father exit the library, cross the street safely—make a note of that, Sam, looking both ways before crossing—and begin walking towards them, calling their names.

Dean saw this, too, and grew agitated. _"Sam, come down here right now! I will leave your ass, don't think I won't!"_

"_It's what I want you to do!"_ Sam bellowed.

As if Sam's asshole attitude wasn't bad enough, Dean now caught sight of what he thought at first might be a bird darkening the sky, but was growing ever larger and more human-shaped. More witch-shaped. And Dean recognized that scent on the wind anywhere.

Still some yards away, John saw this, too, and with a panicked shout broke into a sprint for the base of the tree.

Sam turned at the last moment to see the witch careening straight for him, and with a startled yelp he almost fell off the branch on which he perched, only recovering just in time. Dean calculated Dad's speed against the witch's, and decided to risk it.

"_Let go, Sammy! Now! Jump!"_

Sam only hesitated for half a second because he knew he was so incredibly high up. His earlier argument with his brother was long forgotten, and while he was still perhaps as royally pissed off as an eighteen-month-old had the capacity to be, he slipped right back into unconditional trust as easy as breathing:

Sam let go.

But, "Gotcha!" the witch cackled as Sam fell into the rucksack she held out just as he let go. Now John ran up, gathering Dean into his arms like a football and plugging onwards, but the witch cackled and turned her broom skyward. In an instant she was gone, taking Sammy with her.


End file.
